


‘And who was I with?’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Obligatory Reassurance Fic, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 08:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19696831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: ‘You are quite possibly the most monumentally dim angel it has ever been my privilege to know.’





	‘And who was I with?’

‘You will tell me, won’t you,’ Aziraphale says, breaking the silence. He keeps his back turned to Crowley, fussing unnecessarily with the tea cups as the kettle heats.

‘Tell you what?’

‘If you plan on -- going off again.’ The kettle clicks off and Aziraphale pours the pot full.

Crowley laughs. ‘Go off? Where am I going off to?’ 

Aziraphale takes his time replacing the kettle, putting the lid on the pot, swaddling the whole thing in the tartan cosy with the threadbare bobble Crowley never misses an opportunity to roll his eyes at. ‘Not where so much as with whom.’ 

‘With -- what?’

Aziraphale tests the weight of the tray before he lifts it and turns to the couch, keeping his expression resolutely neutral. ‘With whom.’

Crowley’s frowning. ‘With whom am I going where -- what are you talking about, angel? With _whom_ am I going off?’ 

Aziraphale shrugs, setting the tray down on the worn old table before the worn old couch. ‘Any one of a number of people, it seems to me.’ 

Crowley had been sprawled in his corner of the couch, feet propped on the very edge of the table, idly dangling his sunglasses from the tip of one long finger, and now he sits up, bringing his boot heels to the floor with a bang. ‘You’re serious.’ 

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise, aware that Crowley is staring at him, sunglasses discarded on the table, amber eyes wide. ‘Tea?’

It isn’t as though he hasn’t seen Crowley with humans before -- or Crowley him, for that matter. It was part of the job -- ‘extra duties as assigned,’ as it were. But now-- Aziraphale imagines seeing Crowley reach out to take someone else’s hand, across a white-clothed table perhaps, and feels abruptly ill. 

‘Tea? Tea? No, I don’t want _tea!’_ Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s wrist, his grip gentler than his voice and Aziraphale feels even worse that it took him so long to realise that Crowley was _always_ like that and oh, _Lord,_ this is going to hurt-- ‘--phale. Come here.’ 

By the time Aziraphale realises what’s going on, Crowley has detached him from the teapot and drawn him to the couch, placing him firmly at Crowley’s side. ‘Now.’ Crowley clears his throat and shifts his position, drawing one knee up on the couch so he and Aziraphale are facing each other. He gathers both of Aziraphale’s hands in his and, oh, it is painful to have to think of all that gentleness going to someone else. ‘--ing to me?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I’m listening.’ Aziraphale bobs his head to prove the point and hopes it isn’t too obvious that he has his gaze fixed on the spot between Crowley’s eyebrows and not on his actual eyes.

‘All right.’ Crowley takes a deep breath. ‘Aziraphale. Darling. Dearest. Love of my fucking existence. What bleedingly _stupid_ idea have you gone and picked up now?’ 

Aziraphale frowns, faintly affronted, and tries to pull his hands free but Crowley won’t let him.

‘Ah, ah -- not until you tell me.’ 

‘The tea will get cold--’

‘Damn and blast the tea,’ Crowley says evenly. ‘Tell. Me.’ 

Aziraphale holds firm for a minute, considers protesting that the tea is a rather fine first flush Assam and letting it overbrew like this is almost criminal but Crowley’s gaze is unrelenting -- only natural in someone with no need to blink -- and Aziraphale sags in the face of it. ‘It’s only -- I’ve been noticing.’ 

‘Yes? What?’ Crowley prompts after Aziraphale doesn’t go on. 

Aziraphale sighs. ‘When we’re out together. How people look at us.’ 

‘How people look at us,’ Crowley echoes, eyebrows furrowing together.

‘Well.’ Aziraphale clears his throat and shakes his shoulders back. ‘Yes.’

‘What _are_ you on about?’ 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, Crowley, _really--’_

‘Really _what?_ You look like Wigan on a wet Wednesday and start asking me when I’m going off with someone I don’t even _know_ and then start going on about how people _look_ at us!’

‘I suppose--’ Aziraphale says, trying to give himself some dignity by sitting abnormally upright. ‘I suppose I’m noticing the difference between us.’ He still blushes faintly to remember the expression of the young woman who had taken Crowley in with a frankly hungry stare and then looked at him as though he were the main attraction at a sideshow.

‘I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I’m going to need--’

Aziraphale yanks his hands free. ‘Well! You look -- like _this_ \--’ He flicks his fingers at Crowley. ‘-- and I look -- like _this_ \--’ He waves at himself. ‘-- and I see people notice.’ 

‘Bugger people,’ Crowley snaps and Aziraphale can’t stop himself smiling a little bleakly. 

‘Yes, well. Exactly.’ 

Crowley stares at him for a long minute, lips moving silently. When he shows no sign of moving, Aziraphale clears his throat and nods towards the tea tray. ‘Shall we--’

‘You,’ Crowley declares, standing up, ‘are quite possibly the most monumentally dim angel it has ever been my privilege to know.’

Aziraphale bristles. ‘There’s no need to be _rude--’_

‘Oh, but there is.’ Before Aziraphale can say anything else, Crowley has settled himself calmly in Aziraphale’s lap. ‘Because you think a _mortal_ \-- _any_ mortal -- could hold a fucking _candle_ to what you are because they happen to look a bit _trendier._ That _has_ to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard an angel say and I’ve listened to Gabriel give a pep talk.’

‘So this is your method of subtle reassurance, is it?’ Aziraphale can’t figure out what to do with his hands until Crowley takes them and plants one firmly on each of his hips.

Crowley shakes his head. ‘Nope. This is my method of bloody loud, completely obvious, twenty-one gun salute and a parade down King’s Road with banners and fireworks reassurance.’ 

‘You always did like fireworks,’ Aziraphale murmurs, fixing his gaze on the buttons of Crowley’s shirt. 

‘Oh, angel…’ Crowley’s fingers run cool from Aziraphale’s temple to his jaw. ‘Do you remember what made for a beautiful man in Beijing in the year five?’

Aziraphale sighs. ‘No, of course I--’

‘Or perhaps in Egypt in the seventh century? Or, oh, no, this is an easy one: what about in Antioch in eleven-fifty?’

‘Crowley, what are you--’

‘What was the well-dressed man wearing in fifteen-sixty?’ Crowley goes on, as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken, his other hand coming up to cup Aziraphale’s chin. ‘Or perhaps you can recall what made for high fashion in seventeen-seventy?’

‘Breeches,’ Aziraphale says triumphantly. ‘White. Rather...ah, tight. As I recall.’ 

‘And fucking edible you looked in them, too.’ 

Aziraphale flushes. ‘As entertaining as this is, I really just--’

‘And who was I with? All those times? All those cities? All those years?’ 

Aziraphale swallows, knowing Crowley will feel the bob in his throat. ‘Well. Me, primarily, I suppose--’

‘Got it in one.’ Crowley presses his palms into the couch behind Aziraphale’s shoulders and sways forward, nuzzling Aziraphale’s cheek, his eyebrow, the tip of his nose. ‘So no more of this, eh? No more imagining me going off with humans because they fit some passing trend. It’s not going to happen.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, Wigan. The alliteration was irresistible. I'm sure you're lovely on all Wednesdays.


End file.
